In reponse to postcard fiction...

I sipped the whiskey. It was neat and cheap as far as whiskey goes, something you would probably get from your local newsagent - the kind stored behind the till, next to the collection of tobaccos,  an unspecific brand you've never even heard of before. It was harsh, coursing down my throat as if it were full of needles. I didn't flinch, just took another sip and let out a heavy sigh. My hand remained vice-like around the glass. I stared at the lone ice-cube melting into my drink and then I stared right through the glass. I stared into nothing, into eternity for an immeasurable amount of time. I could feel the despair leaking into my thoughts, mocking my melancholy and whispering the rumours. I pushed the glass round the top of the table, my mouth morosely dropped as my eyes followed the pattern my glass traced out in the puddle of condensation beneath it. The grease sat on the table as a second veneer, resisting the water snail-trail that glistened against the darkened room. I swirled the cube of ice around my drink, letting it clink against the edges. It noise seemed so loud in the empty pub. I imagined the landlady staring so hard at me, she was boring a hole into the back of my head. I put the glass back onto the table and gulped down some of the air. It was damp and solitary. I shifted uncomfortably on my seat. The land lady cleared her throat, I turned round instinctively. She had her head buried in a newspaper. The rumours came hurtling back to the forefront of my mind. The hushed voices speculated about my life; my wasted life. I had to stop thinking, thinking is just too dangerous. The ice had melted. I lifted my glass up to the window, where the fading sunlight struggled in. I finished my drink and with only a hint of a pause, took my empty glass to the bar and left.